


The Pack survives. The Free Folk live.

by gaytriangle



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 8.04, Alternate universe - canon divergent, Free Folk Jon, Gen, Very Canon Divergent, series 8
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-27 10:37:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18737347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaytriangle/pseuds/gaytriangle
Summary: In which an exhausted, conflicted, and battered Jon Snow makes an utterly selfish decision, probably for the first time in his life, and it actually works out.





	The Pack survives. The Free Folk live.

The Starks are responsible. Other houses get fierce words, words to be proud of, words that paint them as warriors, as tacticians, as honourable or vengeful or _powerful_. The Stark words are Winter is Coming. The Stark words whisper of the responsibility of eons, to be the shield that guards the realms of men and the sword in the darkness. 

Good thing, then, that Jon Snow is many things, but not a Stark.

~

On the long ride South, Jon-Aegon, he was Aegon now, and Aegon had a lot of time to watch his men. Gods, but Sansa was right: they were all exhausted, world weariness etched into their bones, and each night they made camp a handful fewer would wake up in the morning. Mercy, he remembered Arya calling it once, when she forgot to hide behind the face of the girl she no longer was. It was merciful to die when life brought naught but pain. 

That march south was also the first time he could really think about Daenerys, about his Dany. He sat in the dim light of his fires embers, polishing his sword and feeling for the rough edges of his love. It wasn’t all encompassing, here in the army camp that seemed more like a roving crypt. He loved Daenerys, had loved her enough to sacrifice his crown for her, his life, if it came to it. He stared out the flaps of his tent, however, and heard the death-cry of another soldier. A soldier that did not love the dragon queen. 

Whispers wound their way North as his party forged on further and further South. J-Aegon, dammit, had abandoned the fast pace his Dany had urged of him almost instantly, and so they were only at the neck when the first rumours reached them. Dracaerys, sings a minstrel by the fire, singing of the ruination of an army and the (unconfirmed, but on this the minstrel and the prince-king-crow agreed: almost certain) burning of a city. Howland Reed slinks out of a shadow and kneels, calling him “little Lyannas son”, and he is so, so tired. 

Ned Stark once called Howland Reed a good man. Aegon Targaryen- no, no, Jon Snow, Jon Snow doesn’t believe everything Ned Stark said anymore. But he believes this. He leaves his aching men with the poison crocodile of the Neck to recuperate and turns his horse North. ‘Fuck the South,’ he thinks, in a voice that sounds like a mountains rumble and reminds him of better days. ‘Fuck the South,’ he thinks, and remembers. 

(Jon Snow has spent a lifetime making unselfish decisions. He remembers Lady Catelyn telling him that a bastards decisions were always selfish, because that was why the Gods created people like him: selfish stains on a family’s honour, a walking punishment. Jon Snow thinks this is the first thing he has done to deserve the monikers. 

He doesn’t care.)

He remembers the first walk into a wildling camp like it was yesterday. Ygritte, the wildcat kissed-by-fire that had never been his, at one side, and an all important mission in his heart. The people had been just as uncomfortable with him as they were everywhere else in the kingdoms, and it stung, then. 

Now, the wildling hugging him was still kissed by fire, although admittedly Ygritte had never been able to lift him up and spin him through the air. The mission slipped from his shoulders, its weight forgotten. He laughed as he hit the ground, and the semi-circle of Free Folk that considered him important enough to gawk at were smiling. Tormund is grinning, half demented, and oh yes, he’s definitely been more than sipping at fermented mares milk. “Finally realised where you belong, did you, crow?” 

Jon is suddenly bowled over by a white blur. Ghost has (somehow) grown even bigger, thriving in this wasteland, big enough to half crush him. Jon hugs his truest friend to his chest, feeling the last knots in his stomach fade away. This was the right choice. Tormund roars with laughter, tugging him up and slapping his back hard enough to bruise. Jon Targaryen-Stark-Snow breaks into the first honest to god’s free smile in what feels like forever. “Took me long enough.”

**Author's Note:**

> *whispers* i would pay D&D so much money for Jon to just say fuck it and go party north of the wall


End file.
